


Summertime (and the living is easy)

by gulkote



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Dancing, Domestic Fluff, Ella Fitzgerald: Queen of Jazz, Gen, Inspired by Music, M/M, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 16:48:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15100949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gulkote/pseuds/gulkote
Summary: Hank likes jazz, and he's got a lot of records





	Summertime (and the living is easy)

**Author's Note:**

> I read a sad fic and had to cheer myself up, so have this tiny, tiny fic
> 
> if you want more jazz music recs, hmu

 

It’s mid-July when they finally get around to organizing Hank’s haphazard pile of records in the corner of the room. About an hour later, there is little organizing going on. One pile of records has become 5 smaller ones spread out across the floor, with Connor and Hank sitting in the middle of them. And Connor has yet to understand Hank’s organizing rules.

“Here put  _ Milestones _ in the pile behind you.”

“The other Miles Davis ones are in this pile though,” Connor responds, hovering the record over the (more) correct stack.

Hank scowls back, “Don’t whine at me, I can put my damn records where I want them.”

Connor twists to gently places the album behind him, “It was a suggestion, not a complaint. I don’t understand your sorting rules.” 

“It’s probably because you haven’t heard all of them. But we can work on that,” Hank reaches to pull up the next album from the “unorganized” pile. He flips the front towards Connor. It’s red with a woman singing into a microphone. Yellow and blue mismatched fonts make up the title, _ Ella Fitzgerald Live at Mr Kelly’s _ . “Now, don’t you go looking up this stuff before you’ve even heard it,” Hank warns. “Just listen first.”

Connor mentally drops whatever information he had just finished pulling up (album year, genre, location of recording, accompanying musicians, notable singles on the album), smiles at Hank and promises, “No information, clean slate. Just the music.”

Hank has to look at him for a few seconds to confirm that he’s not going to try to sneakily process any information while Hank’s back is turned.

 

The record goes on.

Hank returns to telling Connor what pile albums belong to.  Connor dutifully puts them where directed. But after twenty-five minutes, Connor has to admit it to himself. Connor is  _ distracted _ . Ella’s voice is smooth and soothing, despite the vulgarity and sincerity of some of the lyrics. Connor is wondering when Hank started listening to Jazz, when he first heard this woman sing. Which song was it? What was the connection? Did he dance with a girl to jazz? What sort of dancing would match Ella’s voice? He could run a search, but Connor had promised Hank just to listen. What did he have already stored about dance and music?

He decides to wait until the next song. It might be a different time signature and then his decision might be made up for him. As the next song begins to play, Connor immediately starts to count the beat. High potential to being correct. 

“Hank,” Connor softly asks, trying to to ruin the tone Ella’s voice set.

Hank hums back, flipping over a dusty blue vinyl ( _ Night Train: The Oscar Peterson Trio) _ to look at the tracklist on the reverse. 

“Would this music be appropriate for waltzing?”

There’s a few seconds as Connor gets to watch Hank’s face as he “processes” Connor’s question. Then Hank closes his eyes, and exhales, “Don’t you dare look up waltz steps.”

Connor is already standing up, because if Hank closes his eyes, he’s eighty percent more likely to go along with whatever Connor has suggested. And if he exhales _after_ he’s closed his eyes, that means Hank will one hundred percent go along with whatever Connor wants. But he will be embarrassed about it. 

“Hank,” Connor insists, wiggling his fingers at Hank’s face.

There’s a long sigh from Hank and he reaches up for Connor’s hand and hauls himself to his feet. Muttering, “Damn hunk of plastic is more romantic than me,” as he places his other hand around Connor’s waist.

 

Connor may have misjudged the amount of floor space available for dancing. They don’t really dance, they end up more in a 3-step slow circle.

“So how’s waltzing?” Hank asks in an almost bored voice. 

Connor thinks about the last one minute fifteen seconds. Registers two warm hands, one on his right hip, one in his left hand. Hanks breath on the left side of his neck and left shoulder. Warmth of a chest near his own. A soft voice singing a lullaby.

“Pleasureable. Surprisingly easy even without a search to double check the steps.”

“Dancing is pretty easy,” Hank agrees slowly, “So you know what you’re gonna do when the time signature changes?”

“Time signature change?”

And then Connor hears the piano riff pick up. 

Hank tightens his hold on Connor, “You’re not allowed to look up anything! Just go with it.” 

“Wait- Hank, the records are on the floor,” Connor is trying to backpedal his way out of this as Hank sways him across the living room. “These aren’t anything remotely like dance steps- where are you leading me?”

Hank rolls his eyes at Connor, “Oh now you’re concerned about our piles everywhere? Just experience it, don’t worry. Come on, I’ll twirl ya.”

 

By the end, he’s smiling along with Hank. Connor feels like he has done a passable job at not bumping into Hank (too hard), and has made a good attempt to get a feel for music without any external help (except for Hank). 

Hank gives Connor’s shoulder a friendly slap. “See that wasn’t so hard. So what’s the verdict mister?” 

Connor draws out his “Hmm,” as if he has to think harder about it. “What other Ella Fitzgerald albums do you have?”

Hank chuckles. “Just wait until you hear her with Louis Armstrong.”


End file.
